


A Tune

by GirlInLoveWithTheWrongWorld



Series: I wish I was [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AND YOU TOO, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Everybody Needs Hugs, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 23:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlInLoveWithTheWrongWorld/pseuds/GirlInLoveWithTheWrongWorld
Summary: Moving on is not always as easy as it may seem. You realise that now.





	A Tune

**Author's Note:**

> The third instalment of I wish I was.
> 
> Feedback and constructive criticism is always appreciated!
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading!

A Tune  
I wish I was a tune you sang in your kitchen  
Putting your groceries away and washing your dishes  
I could float around your tongue and ease the tension  
And then when you were done, you'd just quiet down

Days blur into weeks. The work in the bakery keeps you busy and smiling becomes easier again. And yet, if you're being honest with yourself, your mind still wanders to him. The cherished memory of him sitting across from you, looking utterly awkward while trying to help you is replaced with the bittersweet knowledge that he did not remember you. You don't blame him. How could you? To him, you reckon, talking to you was simply not a memorable occurrence. There was nothing wrong with that. But sometimes, while frosting a cake or decorating a cupcake, the unhappiness you tried to banish comes back to haunt you. It's not his fault; rationally you are aware of that. You blame yourself for ever imagining seeing him again. Strangers on a train are not supposed to meet again and even if they do, they don't ever remember each other. That's what you keep telling yourself.

Days stretch into weeks and time becomes his enemy. There is no stopping time even if he wanted to. And gods, did he want to. His days are spent in the garage, busying himself in working and trying to forget her. He knows that all attempts at doing so are futile. He still sees her glancing around with shy eyes; still hears her quiet voice thanking him. He still remembers his own cowardice; how a simple sentence from him could have opened up new possibilities for his life. Instead, he chose to hide in the office, waiting for her to leave. He wanted to run after her, telling her he was sorry that he didn't say anything in the first place but he recognised her immediately and if she ever would like to go out for coffee. It was that simple and it was that hard. Before, women were his expertise. He liked talking to them, he relished in their attention and flattery. Now, people in general are a constant reminder of his former life. It takes him every ounce of his willpower to open his mouth and talk. He has to force himself not to just nod or shake is head. And sometimes he fails. Sometimes, the memories, good or bad, are simply too overwhelming. Then, all he can do is accept it. He promises himself that things will get better, that it only takes time to adept to this new life. But he is tired. He knows that he will never be able to go back to his old self, the man in the dashing uniform. That man died falling off a train. And yet, his days as the Winter Soldier are done. If he is sure of one thing it is that he will never let himself be controlled again, not by anyone. So why was it so hard to move on? Why couldn't he go outside and enjoy his newfound freedom? Why couldn't he stop her from leaving? Why couldn't he just talk? He knows why, if he is honest with himself. It's quite simple, actually. He does not believe he is allowed to be happy. The things his hands have done are atrocious. They have not only killed, oh no. They have tortured. Meticulously and diligently. They have stalked their prey and waited for their turn. His other arm is a constant reminder of this. He wishes he could rip it off his body but there is no use. He would still have to live with the memories of what it has done. No, he has to live with what he has done and suffer the consequences. And he has to do so alone. A monster does not deserve a happy ending.

The bakery is filled to the brim with people. Christmas is just around the corner and the small town is bustling with holiday spirit. It's on a day as this that you find yourself baking another chocolate cake for Paul. Your hands were shaking when you saw his name on the day's order list and you hoped that today he would be able to pick it up himself. You never wanted to see his garage or the memories connected to it again. The cake is almost ready when Madeleine, smiling and humming as always, walks into the kitchen. “Is Paul's chocolate cake almost done, dear?” she asks you. You nod your head while putting the finishing touches on the cake. “Perfect!” “Do I...” you start, to afraid to answer. “I mean, is he picking it up himself or do we have to deliver it again?” Madeleine chuckles. “Oh, don't worry! He sent someone to pick it up for him. No need to stop all your baking and decorating.” You are grateful. Rationally, this is because of the massive amount of holiday treats you still have to bake. Emotionally, it's because of him. You do not care to repeat the disaster that was your last visit. “Oh, well... that's good!” you say and pack up the cake. With the finished and boxed cake, Madeleine gives you a last smile and heads towards the front of the bakery. You are... happy. The thought of seeing him and his obliviousness again are mortifying. But a small part of you wishes to see him again. Maybe, you sometimes tell yourself, maybe he did remember you. Maybe his flabbergasted look meant that he did remember you but he just wasn't expecting to ever see you again. You sigh and get to work. No, you convince your self halfheartedly; he did not remember you.

He knows that this is a bad idea. He knew it the moment his mouth opened without the consent of his brain. When Paul asked if anyone could pick up the cake he ordered from a bakery, his mouth said a simple sentence. “I'll do it.” Why? He has no idea. But that's not entirely true. He knows why his mouth would do such a thing. His subconsciousness wants to tell him to overcome his cowardice and see her again. It's as simple as that. So when the words had left his mouth, the others looked at him, shocked. He is not a sociable person let alone leave the safe space he created for himself and pick up a cake somewhere across town. But Paul just smiled at him, gave him directions and thanked him profusely for the trouble. 

He stands in front of the bakery, not knowing what to do. There bakery is packed with people and he is afraid to go in; both because of the uncountable number of people but also the thought of coming face to face with her. He is tempted to just leave, but he feels indebted to Paul. How he took in a stranger and gave him the opportunity to live again, how Paul never questioned his shaking hands and nervous stammer, and how Paul somehow always understood what was going on inside his brain. After a while, he learned that Paul had been a soldier himself. The garage, he once told him, was his attempt at regaining his life. The pride in his eyes while talking about his business was something he could never forget. And so, with a heavy heart and reluctant feet, he walks into the shop.

The clock couldn't be accurate. The last time you checked, it was a quarter to six in the afternoon. It was half past ten now. You lost yourself in the dough and decorations and frosting. The orders for the next morning are done and it is only now that you feel the exhaustion creeping in. Hurriedly, you clean up the kitchen, trying your hardest to be quick because you hope to catch the next train home. You say goodbye to a tired Madeleine and make your way out of the bakery, mentally preparing a to do list for the next day. The door bell chimes, announcing your departure when you bump into another person. Confused, you mumble a quick apology without looking up. Your thoughts of getting to the train on time are interrupted by the stranger's simple words of “sorry”. 

She is not here. He scanned the crowd three times and she is not here. Around him, the people are excitedly talking about the upcoming holidays. Couples are holding hands, children are admiring the treats in the show cases, the smell of cinnamon is everywhere and she is not here. She should be here, his mind rages at him. She brought the cake so she works here but there is only one person behind the counter and it is not her. Maybe she only works on certain days? Maybe she was just helping out? He's next in line and he mumbles Paul's name and the next thing he remembers is presenting Paul his beloved chocolate cake. The man is overjoyed at his favourite treat but somehow manages to see his grim expression. The pat on his back is meant to be reassuring and comforting but he is too angry to accept it. He shrugs off Paul's arm, retreats into his own space and curses himself. Why didn't he just say something to her when she was actually there? Why was he such a coward? He busies himself with repairing an old Chevy Impala; all the while longing to see her face again.

The next time he checks the clock, it's already shortly after nine o'clock. The others have already left and now it's just him and Paul. This is not unusual. Both him and Paul love being in the garage. To both of them, it represents a safe haven. He can hear footsteps now. “When do you think you'll finish up the Impala?” “Depends on how long I'll stay tonight. At the latest tomorrow evening.” “Great. That's... great.” He knows Paul wants to say something else. He can feel it in his reluctance to leave him alone. “You do know that if you want to talk to someone...” “I know. Everything's alright. It's just... the people in the bakery...it was a bit overwhelming.” He feels ashamed for lying to Paul because even if the people in the shop were loud and he had to refrain from panicking, they are not the reason his mood is nasty. “Hm... I was wondering why you would pick up the cake.” “I wanted to … face my demons, you know? No point in always fearing everything.” He had read that somewhere in a self-help book Paul lent him. And while they were right about a few things, no book could ever prepare him for the real world. Paul smiles, he is somehow proud of his words. “Good for you.” He knows that Paul's lecture isn't over yet. “Just... you seemed off in the past couple of weeks. And I'm just wondering if everything's good?” He doesn't know what to answer. No, he is not alright. He doesn't want to look in the mirror ever again. He is disgusted at his own cowardice. Before he can respond, Paul says “I'm just saying... we need to leave the battlefield behind. We deserve happiness even though you might think you don't. It's... You're not a bad person.” Paul sighs, his words have exhausted him. 

And somehow he finds himself outside of the bakery at a quarter after ten. Earlier, it began to snow and someone not as cynical as him would call this evening peaceful, beautiful even. The small town is picturesque, old houses on every side of small streets. The bakery is still lit, there must be someone still working. He waits for something to happen; anything, really. For someone to come and ask him what the hell he was doing outside of a bakery at half past ten in the evening but his feet are glued to the street and he cannot move. There is movement inside now, someone coming from the back. He still cannot move when he sees her opening and closing the front door of the shop. She is lost in her thoughts, she doesn't see him, he thinks before her body collides with his. Her eyes don't glance up to his; she is too far away. Her quick apology is mumbled before she wants to move away. He has to act quickly now, he knows. He wants to make her stay. The only thing his mind comes up with is a quick apology. He is sure she will leave now. Maybe she is even frightened that a stranger is standing outside of her shop in the middle of the night. He would be the last person to blame her. Fear is a sentiment he understands pretty well. But she doesn't leave. Her body becomes rigid, and ever so slowly she turns around. 

Fuck.

She never did believe in fate and she wasn't going to start now. But why the fuck is he standing in front of the shop she works in late at night?

Madeleine is humming a song she heard in the radio earlier, wanting to close down the bakery for good for the day when she sees them in front of the shop. She sees you, a shocked look on your face and the handsome man from earlier who picked up Paul's cake. Yes, she remembers him. How could she not? He had been soft-spoken and polite. Paul also had rang her to tell her that one of his workers was going to pick up his cake; a friend who had been through similar experiences. He didn't need to say anything more. Madeleine and Paul had been friends since their early childhood and Madeleine had been overcome with grief when Paul announced he was joining the army. She had supported him, always had, but she was scared for his life. Settling into his old life had been anything but easy but with her help, Paul had found peace again. So when he told her all about him, she was more than understanding. But she does not know what to make of the scene outside of her shop. How do these two know each other?

Time stops. Your heart is beating fast. Your mind is reeling. How could this happen? Why was he here? What are you going to do now? But before you can decide on which question you have no answer to, he speaks up. “I.. um... is the bakery closed? I wanted to..um... place an order?” Oh. Well. That explains things. He isn't here to see you. He wants to order a cake. Or cupcakes. Or whatever. “We just closed down, but um... just tell me what you would like to order and I'll try and fit you in.” You're amazed how calm your voice sounds for your feelings are in turmoil. You rummage in your backpack to find a piece of paper. This was business. Nothing more, nothing less. He wants a cake, you make cake for a living. End of story. “I'd like.... anything with plums.” Of course. Of course he would say that. Another reminder that he doesn't remember you. Fucking plums. You would never eat a plum in your life. “How about german plum cake? It's um.. I quite like it.” He hesitates but nods his head. “Alright. When would you like your cake to be made?” You hope he says never. You hope he will say that this was a misunderstanding and just leave. You can feel tears in the corners of your eyes and you know it's not from the cold. “Is the day after tomorrow to soon?” The day after tomorrow is Christmas Eve. A busy, busy day. So busy you had to turn away several customers already. But you hear yourself say “Not at all.” and he smiles. He has the audacity to smile while you try your hardest not to fall apart in front of him. “Great” I just need your name so that Madeleine knows whose order this is.”

He hates himself. He sees how she is struggling to write down his order. A fucking cake. He has ordered a fucking cake because he is too much of a coward than to actually apologise to her. The bakery is probably too busy to make his cake, a cake he doesn't actually want. All he wants to do is crawl back home and never leave. To forget this ever happened. To forget her. But when she reassures him that his cake will be ready on time, he cannot help but smile. Maybe to comfort her shaking frame, maybe because he knows he will see her again. He is not sure which. And then she asks a question that hits him like a punch from one of Hydra's henchmen. “Great! I just need your name so that Madeleine knows whose order this is.” 

He is fucked. Granted, he hates himself and thus also his name. He could give her a false name. Hell, not even Paul knows his real name but somehow he does not want to lie to her. So he he takes in a deep breath and braces himself.

“My name is Bucky.”


End file.
